On the Road to Nowhere
by ButteryflyFarie
Summary: It's Sam's fault, obviously. It always is. The Impala won't start and it's all Sam's fault. But if that means that the mechanic with the dark hair and amazing blue eyes will stay around for a while, maybe Dean doesn't mind after all. DeanCas AU one-shot.


**Disclaimer: **I do not own any of the characters mentioned here-after; they belong to the wonder Mr. Kripke and, despite my many wishes on many stars, I will never own them and will make absolutely 0 money out of this.

**Warnings: **Slash, slight profanity, slight sexual musings (no more than the show, though!). Rated only for the language, nothing else.

**Summary: **Dean maintains that it was all Sam's fault - it's all Sam's fault that the Impala won't start. But if his baby's pain means that the mechanic with the tousled dark hair and amazing blue eyes will be staying around for a couple more hours, maybe it wouldn't be so bad after all...

**Author's Note: **So, hi guys. This is my first one-shot like... ever, so I don't particularly have high hopes for this. But I love Dean and I love Cas and I love them even more together, so why not shove them in an AU where anything can happen under my say-so? The best kind of situation, methinks... :) Oh, and by the way, any mistakes are mine due to the lack of beta at the minute. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

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><p>Dean was contemplating suicide.<p>

Under the intense July sun, grease covering all visible surfaces of his skin and elbow deep in car parts, Dean Winchester was greatly contemplating suicide. Nothing too extreme, of course – he wasn't about to go shoving his head into Bobby's oven (which was temperamental at the best of times). But jumping in front of a speeding truck on the highway? _That_ he could handle.

Now, Dean wasn't usually the suicidal type. In fact the majority of the time he was the one with the level head, the one who assured everyone else that there was always another option and not to get too distraught when things weren't going their way. He was always there with a pat on the back and a 'hey, things could always be worse, right?'.

But, naturally, people very rarely follow their own advice. And, quite obviously, things could _not_ get any worse.

So there he was, smudging more grease onto his forehead as he wiped away the collecting sweat with the back of his hand and choking back frustrated tears (which he would never admit to, of course). It was just his luck. It was just his fucking luck.

"Still nothing?"

In fact, things could indeed get worse.

Sam Winchester in all his glory was extremely tall, had model-esque locks of flowing hair and was a major pain in Dean's firm yet aesthetically pleasing ass. He maintained the assumption that it was all Sammy's fault. Of course it was – it was always Sammy's fault.

Who flooded the bathroom because he forgot to turn the faucet off while he went for a beer at the bar? Sammy.

Who left the window open in the dead of winter because he 'was always warm in the middle of the night' and made Dean suffer from flu for the majority of the Christmas holidays? Sammy.

Who borrowed the Impala without asking? Sammy. And what was now parked unmoving in the front of Bobby's house, refusing to start and releasing a pained groan whenever Dean so much as sat in the driver's seat? That would be the Impala.

If there was one constant in Dean's life, the one thing that had been there for him since before he could remember, it was the sleek black 1967 Chevy that he was currently leaning against.

The love he felt for his car was almost worrying (okay, borderline obscene but who was complaining?) and Sam was constantly teasing him about it - something about psychology and projection and never having a steady relationship. In which Dean would retort that he had had a steady relationship, bitch. And Sam would reply that a three month stint with Cassie Robinson when he was 19 didn't really count as a steady relationship, jerk.

So Dean would threaten to make Sam walk the next time he needed to go to the library and Sam would instantly back off because if there was _one_ relationship that needed worrying about it was the one between Sammy and his books.

"No, still nothing," Dean replied, refusing to look into his brother's face. But then a cold beer was pressed into his greasy palm and Dean forgot for a moment that this was his brother's fault and took a long swig before going back to gazing imploringly into the depths of the Impala's inner workings.

Maybe if he stared long enough, the solution would just jump out at him.

"You know even if you stare long enough, the solution's not going to just jump out at you."

A death inducing glare was followed by the innocent raising of palms and the puppy dog eyes. Those eyes had stopped working on Dean when he was nine years old.

"Why don't you take a hike, Sasquatch? Need I remind you this is your fault?"

Sammy heaved a sigh and settled for Bitch Face #6: Do I Seriously Need to Say This Again?

"I told you, Dean. The Impala was fine when I brought it back."

"So, what? It just magically decided to stop working overnight?"

"Why not? It's over 40 years old dude – it was going to kick the bucket at some point."

Dean's mouth dropped open in horror.

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," he replied with a hiss and gently stroked the car's shiny metal body. "He didn't mean it, baby, I promise."

Sam rolled his eyes and heaved another exasperated sigh. "Bobby told me to tell you that he's found someone to look at it. Something about cheap rates and specialising in classic cars."

"Over my dead body," Dean replied immediately, placing his beer on the ground before leaning back in to take another look. "Some jackass with a wrench and a slip of paper to call himself a mechanic is going nowhere near my girl."

"Well, you're obviously getting nowhere," Sam shouted over his shoulder as he made his way back to the house, "And it's too late anyway – Bobby's already called them. They're gonna be here to take a look at four."

Before Dean could overcome his shock and tear Sam a new one, his brother had already disappeared into the house.

A quick look at his watch told him it was twelve thirty. He had three hours and thirty minutes – three hours and thirty minutes to sort out his baby before some guy came and gutted her, leaving her for dead and expecting a hideously large amount of money in return.

In case it wasn't obvious, Dean didn't trust mechanics.

His father had been a mechanic, and he had trusted his dad about as far as he could throw him. Of course, his dad had also been a dead beat alcoholic, so maybe the trust issues weren't exactly down to his career choice, per se.

The minutes ticked by like seconds and Dean still had no idea what was wrong with his beloved car. He'd gone through all of the usual checks; the fuses were still intact, a jump start with help from Bobby had done nothing so that battery wasn't the problem and the ignition switch was fine. So he'd tried other, less common possibilities but they had all been fine too – the coil was still intact and the starter connection still had a current. And yet whenever he turned the key in the ignition, his baby wailed and screeched like a cat in heat.

It wasn't a very comforting sound and, if he was honest with himself, he was all out of ideas.

And yet he continued to stare into the oily depths and refused to admit that he had done all he could.

At exactly 4:00pm, Dean heard the familiar sound of tyres against gravel and tried to ignore the flipping of his stomach and the tensing of his muscles – he'd be there, oh, yes he'd be there, watching the so called 'mechanic' like a hawk and if he saw so much as one wire out of place, so help him God...

Raising his head and holding up a hand to shield his eyes from the mid-day sun, Dean inspected the vehicle rumbling towards Bobby's house. It was a Chevy pickup, 1970 if he wasn't mistaken (which he rarely was) in a metallic blue.

His dad had owned a pickup. He didn't trust those either.

The car rumbled to a stop a few feet from where Dean stood and he waited with baited breath for the torture to begin.

The driver's side door opened with a creak and the first thing Dean noticed was a mop of messy dark hair. The second thing he noticed was pristine clothes; a button up shirt rolled up to the elbows and smartly pressed slacks, not a crease on them. There was a tie hanging crookedly around his neck.

Really. A tie.

This guy was... a mechanic? Seriously?

Dean didn't have to look at himself in the mirror to know that he was covered from head to foot in oil and he knew that the summer sun had made him sweat more than he cared to admit. He had dressed purposefully for the occasion: an old Metallica shirt and jeans with rips at the knees that would only look more badass with grease stains.

Maths wasn't Dean's strongest subject but he somehow assumed that 'suit' plus 'greasy car parts' equalled 'high laundry bills'.

He only hoped the mystery mechanic didn't pull out one of those denim overalls - if that didn't make a guy look like a douche, then Dean didn't know what did.

"Hello. My name is Castiel Novak from Angel Auto's. If you are Bobby Singer, I believe we spoke previously on the telephone."

The third and fourth things Dean noticed (though he could never be sure what he noticed first out of the two) were eyes so big and blue they could give the truck a run for its money and a voice so deep it couldn't possibly have come out of the guys mouth even if his lips did move in time to the sounds.

A harsh jaw line. Slight stubble from a day's work. Pink lips, a little chapped but plump and inviting all the same.

The guy was gorgeous and Dean hated himself for noticing.

"Sir?"

Dean was pulled from his musings as the man spoke again (and yeah, that deep voice definitely came from him) and he cleared his throat in embarrassment.

"Sorry. No, I'm Dean Winchester, Bobby's inside – are you here about my car?" The question slipped out with a level of scepticism before he could help himself because he refused to believe that this guy, this intensely gorgeous guy in a suit, could be a mechanic. He had to be... a tax accountant at best.

"The 1967 Chevrolet Impala? Yes, I am here to inspect that car."

Dean smiled tightly.

"Great," he choked out before clearing his throat again and deciding not even to attempt fake enthusiasm. "Well, she's right here." He gestured back towards the car – as if she needed an introduction at all – and moved aside so Castiel (Castiel? What kind of a name was Castiel?) could make his way to the hood.

As Castiel walked along Dean's pride and joy, he ran a slender hand along the body as if he couldn't quite help himself. Once he reached the open hood, he nodded once in satisfaction. "She is well cared for – you must be immensely attached to her."

Dean's chest began to swell with pride as it did whenever anyone complimented his car. A little conversation wouldn't hurt, right? Dean immediately tried to convince himself that he would still talk with the dark haired man even if he didn't have _the most muscular forearms he had ever seen in his life_.

"Yeah, I am. I've had her since I was 17 and my dad had her before I did. She's part of the family."

"And I hear she is currently out of action."

Castiel's alien blue eyes flickered to Dean's green ones and he somehow forgot how to swallow. "Yeah," he croaked, "It's been a couple of days now. She just won't start."

"I will do everything I can to ensure she is repaired in the least amount of time, Mr. Winchester," Castiel replied – his voice was sincere, as if nothing in the world was more important than fixing the wounded car.

"Mr. Winchester was my father," Dean replied with a slight curve of his lips. "Call me Dean."

Castiel watched him for a second (Dean tried not to feel as if his thoughts were being x-rayed and cross examined and shoved under a microscope all at once) before nodding, the edges of his mouth twitching slightly into his own bizarre version of a smile.

"Of course... Dean. But in turn, I must insist you call me Castiel."

Dean shrugged his shoulders. "Sure. Castiel." He smirked, raising his eyebrows. "Dude, were your parents drunk when they named you?"

And then the voice at the back of his head – the one he always thought sounded a bit too much like Sammy to be a coincidence – piped up. _Oh, yes, Dean – that's always a great way to make a good impression; insult the guys parents why don't you? _Dean ignored the voice, as he usually did, and decided not to wonder why he wanted to make a good impression in the first place.

But instead of being insulted Castiel just smiled wryly, bending his head to look under the hood of the car. Dean tensed and began to edge carefully closer to where the man was stood because, no matter how nice his neck was, the same neck was currently craning to look at his car and that just wasn't first date material. Hell, it wasn't even third date material.

"Not drunk, no. They were extremely religious, however. I no longer realise just how strange my name is – having grown up with Gabriel and Lucifer for siblings, my own name tends to fade into the background."

Dean could resist the unattractive snort that escaped him.

"Lucifer? Seriously?"

Castiel nodded solemnly. "Yes. We tend not to talk about him much, what with him trying to start the apocalypse and all."

Castiel's face was deadpan, but there was a sparkle of humour in his eyes and Dean couldn't help the smile that tugged at his lips.

The minutes passed in comfortable silence (though Dean continued to stand close enough to be able to see what kind of tinkering Castiel was doing inside of his baby) and before long the mop of black hair lifted.

Although his clothes remained scarily clean, a small streak of oil had somehow managed to end up on Castiel's cheek and Dean had to pinch himself through the pocket of his jeans to stop his hand from reaching up to wipe at it.

"So, Cas. What's the verdict?"

Castiel started at the nickname but did not comment, though a slight blush had appeared on his cheeks. Dean did an internal dance of victory.

"I am afraid I have not reached a conclusion as of yet," he replied. "I will gather my tools and return momentarily."

Castiel walked back towards his truck and began to root in the back for his things. Once he was sure the mechanic was immersed in his search, Dean sucked in a deep breath and ran a hand over his face.

This was bad. This was very bad.

The eyes that seemed to look into his soul, the scarily smart clothes, the strange way of pronouncing every word when he spoke... It was everything that Dean avoided like the plague – he was all busty blondes or guys the size of quarterbacks. Not this.

But Dean could feel the coiling in his stomach whenever he looked into those baby blues that usually resulted in only one thing.

He glanced over towards the pickup where Castiel was on his tiptoes, reaching for something that was just out of his reach, and couldn't help but stare at the way his slacks curved around his ass just so that –

Dean groaned and contemplated suicide for the second time that day.

When Castiel returned with a box of tools that looked like it had seen better days, Dean smiled tightly and tried to pretend that he wasn't in the middle of some kind of mental breakdown.

"I hear you specialise in classic cars," Dean said once Castiel's head was back under the hood, "How's that working out for you?"

'_How's that working out for you'?_ Sammy's voice inside his head cackled with girlish laughter; he obviously found Dean's sudden lack of intelligence rather amusing.

"Business is steady," Castiel replied vaguely, "I must admit, there are not many classic cars around anymore. Definitely none of this standard."

Dean preened slightly at the compliment and then had to restrain from hitting himself in the face. He was acting like an eighth grade girl with her first real crush. _This wasn't him_. He was the one who flirted with anything that had legs, never blushed, was always the one that laughed away compliments but dealt them out left, right and centre. _What was this guy doing to him?_

"1967 Mustang or 1969 Camaro?" Dean asked suddenly once the silence had settled in.

Castiel looked up from the Impala, head tilted in confusion. "Excuse me?"

Dean tried to ignore the embarrassment swirling in his stomach. "'67 Mustang or '69 Camaro? Which would you choose?"

"Choose to what?"

"Drive, fix up, fuck in the backseat. I don't know, just which one would you choose?"

Castiel didn't even blink at Dean's language, and instead considered the question with great thought.

"Although I have always been a fan of Mustangs, I have a place in my heart for anything Chevrolet, so I will have to go with the Camaro," he finally answered, then smirked and looked back at the Impala. "Though I find '67 is a much better year."

The silence settled again, though it wasn't entirely uncomfortable, until Castiel straightened once more and gestured towards Dean's shirt with the wrench in his hand. "I may be wasting a question by asking, but Metallica or Led Zeppelin?"

Dean snorted. Oh, yes, this could definitely pass the time.

"You'd be surprised. Led Zeppelin, hands down. Jimmy Page is a god. I went to one of their concerts when I was 16 and I've been a fan ever since. Sammy would say that I was living in the past and that I should listen to something more 'now', and get rid of my cassette tapes and buy an iPod... but, dude, there's nothing like cruising down the highway with the windows down and Zeppelin playing full volume."

Castiel smiled – the first real smile Dean had seen him make since he got there - and he refused to notice that he forgot how to breathe, that the air inside him had somehow gotten caught inside his chest.

"'Sammy'? Is he your..." Castiel trailed off but the look that he shot in Dean's direction gave him the general gist of what he was questioning.

"Sammy? No, God no. He's my brother – part time law student, full time pain in my ass."

The questions from that point on changed dramatically, from 'chocolate or vanilla' (to which Dean answered chocolate, unless it's ice cream) to 'movies or books' (Castiel replied books, but preferred to watch horror rather than read it because of his overactive imagination).

"Rain or snow?" Dean asked. He was now sat on the dusty floor, leaning against the tyre of Castiel's pickup. The mechanic's head was still inside the Impala but, granted, not a lot of work had been done since they had struck up their conversation. The streak of oil had now dried onto his cheek, but his clothes remained as pristine as they were when he had first arrived.

"Snow," Castiel replied, a small but wistful smile on his face. "I used to live in New York. We got snow there every year, from October all the way through to March. Gabriel and I used to have snowball fights and competitions over who could make the best snow angel, even when we were well into our twenties. Michael never joined us, of course, he was always above our childish games and Lucifer never interacted with us as long as he could help it. So Gabriel and I... we made our own fun. I miss it, the snow. It never snows as much here."

The way Castiel spoke of his brother made Dean want to question whether it was, in fact, the snow he missed or Gabriel, but the small smile sent his way held the hidden message of 'don't ask, I don't want to talk about this' and instead nodded in acceptance of his answer and gestured for him to ask his own question.

"Blue or green?"

"Blue," Dean replied immediately without thinking and could feel his cheeks heat up as Castiel's eyes rested on him. Like everything else that had popped into his head since Castiel's arrival, he tried to ignore the fact that his favourite colour had been green up until the metallic blue pickup with its blue-eyed driver had parked in Bobby's yard. Dean coughed to clear his throat. "Batman or Superman?"

Dean's own answer would have been Batman, hands down, but he wasn't so sure Castiel would agree.

The mechanic looked thoughtful for a minute. "Batman."

Dean gave a surprised, yet equally relieved, laugh. "Thank God. I was sure you would choose Superman."

Castiel tilted his head to one side like he had done the first time Dean had asked him a question. Dean's mouth curved into a smile without even considering it – the look on his face was utterly adorable, like a confused puppy (and he would deny ever making the connection if asked, but the son of a bitch was so goddamn cute he couldn't help himself). "Why is that?"

"Well, you've got the whole Clarke Kent thing going on, haven't you?" He gestured towards Castiel's clothing. "You're not exactly in mechanic-esque get-up. It's more like tax accountant by day, superhero by night."

Castiel smiled.

"I was always told the way to make a good impression was to dress to make a good impression – I don't wear a suit all of the time, you know." A sudden image of Castiel in his own Metallica shirt and ripped jeans popped into Dean's head and the idea was hotter than he liked to admit. "I actually like the way that Bruce Wayne had no superpowers to speak of and yet managed to save Gotham City all the same. The other superheroes – they are only heroic because of their powers: Clarke Kent and his alien origins, Peter Parker and the radioactive spider... Batman was just that – a man. And he was just as good as everyone else."

"You've put a lot of thought into this, haven't you?" Dean asked with a smile. Castiel was just as much of a nerd as he was.

"It's a comforting thought to think that a regular man can still save the world if he so wishes."

Castiel's eyes locked onto his own and the coiling in his stomach turned to butterflies, the beating of a thousand wings fluttering inside his chest. The last time he had felt anything remotely like this was when he was 19 years old and he had met Cassie Robinson for the first time.

Dean was unbelievably, implausibly, extraordinarily screwed.

The minutes passed in comfortable silence, Dean still resting against the mechanic's truck and Castiel's head still in the Impala. Conversation was light but not at all awkward ("Hot isn't it?" Dean said as a bead of sweat trickled down Castiel's cheek) and Dean wondered when, exactly, he had decided to forgo the vulture like circling of the guy who was inspecting his baby. One minute he was peering over Castiel's shoulder to get a look at what was going on, but here he was the next minute sitting on the dusty ground with his back against the front tyre of the pickup.

God, he needed a beer.

"What a beer, Cas?" he asked as he climbed to his feet, because – when in doubt – the best course of action was always to drink copious amounts of alcohol.

"Yes, that would be wonderful, Dean. Thank you."

"Back in a sec," he replied, making his way towards the house, but Castiel simply shoved his head back under the hood, waving a hand vaguely in the universal sign of, 'I don't care, take your time'.

The coolness of the kitchen was a welcome change from the sweltering heat of the outside and Dean practically moaned in appreciation when he opened the fridge to grab the beers.

"So, I'm assuming the Impala's fixed."

In the middle of trying to climb inside of the fridge to further absorb the coolness, the voice caused Dean to jump slightly and he banged his head against the top shelf.

"Shit, man!" he exclaimed, retracting from the kitchen appliance with the two beers in one hand and the other clutched to his now throbbing head. "Warn a guy, would ya?"

Sam, for the most part, didn't look at all sorry when he apologised.

"But, no, just for the record, the Impala's not fixed yet."

"So the mechanic's coming back to have another look tomorrow?" Sam continued, sitting down at the kitchen table where his beloved laptop lay. "Did he not have the tools to finish it or something?"

"Dude, what the Hell are you talking about?" As he reached for the bottle opener, it seemed at that point that Sam noticed there was a grand total of two beers in his brother's hand as opposed to the usual one.

"You mean... He's still here?" The utter shock on Sam's face was almost comical.

"Yeah. So?"

"He's outside? While you're inside?" Dean shrugged, seemingly not understanding why his brother was so concerned about the where-abouts of Castiel. Sam sighed and posed Bitch Face #11 (Why Don't You Understand Yet, You Utter Moron) and continued, "The mechanic is outside with his head in the Impala while you are inside _fetching him a beer_ and you don't see the problem with this picture?"

Dean stopped mid-swig.

"Oh shit."

This was bad. This was very bad. He had left Castiel outside without even a second thought and even now when the situation had been posed to him by Sam, Dean was more concerned by the fact that he _wasn't_ concerned than the fact that the guy could be doing God knows what to his car right now.

Dean cleared his throat and gestured towards the door.

"I'll just be..."

Sam nodded knowingly as Dean made his way across the kitchen and spoke up just as he reached the door. "So, I take it he's attractive then?"

Dean sighed in self-woe.

"Dude, you have no idea."

It seemed that Castiel hadn't moved an inch during the time it had taken Dean to enter the house, grab the beers, contemplate suicide for the third time that day and return to the dusty yard.

He cleared his throat as he neared the mechanic and the man in question raised slowly from the hood, a wrench in hand a smile on his face as he accepted the beer offered to him.

"Good news, Dean," Castiel said before chugging the beer with gusto. Dean's excitement quickly turned to shock as the mechanic – the well spoken, suit wearing mechanic – drank the entire beer in one go. "I think I have found our problem."

"How did-? Did you just-?" Dean stared wide eyed at the empty bottle dangling precariously from Castiel's fingers.

And then Castiel blushed and Dean melted and he couldn't exactly remember why he was so shocked in the first place but knew that he wanted to nothing more than to make the man blush again.

"Yes, sorry about that. Force of habit." He chuckled before bending down to place the empty bottle, still dripping with condensation, onto the dusty floor. "When you grow up with Gabriel, if you don't drink alcohol fast then you never get the chance to drink alcohol."

Dean smiled and couldn't help but stare at the dark haired man. He knew he was probably being weird, was probably making Castiel feel awkward, but at the moment he didn't really care.

But instead of clearing his throat self-consciously or looking away and twiddling his thumbs, Castiel met Dean's gaze dead on with a smile of his own and in that minute – that single minute where they simply looked into one another's eyes – Dean didn't want him to leave. He wanted to invite him to dinner to meet Sam and Bobby, wanted to share childhood stories sat on the hood of his car while overlooking the city at the peak of a hill, wanted to press their lips together, rough and desperate and aching for one another's touch...

"So, you've found out what's wrong with my baby?" Dean finally said, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled around them.

"Yes, I believe so," Castiel replied, turning back towards the car. "Would you mind starting her up for me?"

Dean nodded once but felt uneasy as he slid into the front seat. His baby... she didn't sound very healthy when he turned the key and he didn't exactly want to put her through any more pain. He didn't think his stomach could take it.

Biting his lip and holding his breath, Dean turned the key and winced as the screeches, scrapes and squeals filled the silent yard. He stopped as soon as he had started and sighed in defeat – Castiel hadn't fixed her. She was still crying in desperation and she still wouldn't start.

But as Dean climbed out of the car, turning towards Castiel to give him the, "hey, man, it's alright – you tried your best" speech, he stopped dead in his tracks. Because Castiel was grinning.

"You have chipped tooth on your flywheel," he stated confidently, eyes scrunched up in happiness.

"I have a what on my what-now?" Dean replied, marching towards the mechanic with a new found hope replacing the bile in his stomach.

"A chipped tooth," Castiel replied, "Your starter gear connects to the individual teeth on your flywheel. If a tooth on the flywheel is worn or chipped, the starter will spin but won't connect to the wheel, resulting in loud screeches and grinding... just like we heard. It's not too difficult to fix, I might have to take her in overnight but it's a cheap job, not too taxing. I'm sure we can-"

And before Dean could stop himself, he lunged forward and pulled Castiel into a bone crushing hug, lifting the shorter man off of his feet slightly in his enthusiasm. He couldn't help but laugh in relief as he gently set the man down, but remained with his arms wrapped around him. And, slowly, Castiel returned the favour.

Dean thought his smile might break his cheek bones, but he wasn't too worried.

"Thank you, Castiel. Really, thank you."

He could feel Castiel smirk against his neck and the mechanic rose onto his tiptoes to whisper into Dean's ear, his warm breath licking at the skin there. "It was my pleasure, Dean."

Dean shivered and, if Castiel's chuckle was anything to go by, the dark haired man knew exactly what he was doing.

"You know, you've done more than enough for me," Dean said, pulling back so he could look at Castiel but keep his arms wrapped around the man's waist. "Maybe I can pay you back somehow? Dinner, maybe? A movie?" _A full weekend in my bed?_

Castiel smiled and the blush settled on his cheeks again.

"I would like that, Dean Winchester. I would like that very much."

So it wasn't all bad, Dean thought as the metallic blue truck rounded the corner with his baby in tow. Things were actually looking up. His favourite girl was on the mend, he had a cold beer in his hand and a date with a delectable mechanic in four short days.

Maybe, just maybe, suicide could wait.

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><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Thanks for taking the time to read, guys! If it's not too much trouble, maybe you could just hit the little button that says 'review'? Hint hint, nudge nudge.


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